


Love Cannot Always Fly Without Resting

by theherocomplex



Series: Love From a Gurney [3]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Kink, Established Relationship, F/M, Femdom, Reunions, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18469954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex
Summary: As for me — I'm lost, as I always am: in her taste, in her smell, in the way the world narrows to only sensation and my body's response to the way she touches me.A miracle, every time.





	Love Cannot Always Fly Without Resting

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains consensual BDSM themes and consensual kinks; Julian and Salome are an established couple, and everything that occurs is with both partners' enthusiastic consent. 
> 
> Content warnings for: biting, slight orgasm denial, gentle femdom, praise kink.

Today's visit to the Red Market was a roaring success; my purse is empty save for dust and a few gold shavings, but I still clink and rattle enough for four rich men. I snatched up everything on dear Mazelinka's list, which should keep me safe from punishment the next time I trampled her herb garden, and even found a few pretties for myself. Well, _pretties_ might be pushing it; there's nothing pretty about angler teeth, even if the merchant tries to pass them off as Genuine Merrow Fangs.

Joke's on them — I'm one of the few people in the city with a use for merrow fangs and angler teeth. And, on the off-chance they're complete fakes, I didn't spend any _actual_ gold getting them.

I'm so busy congratulating myself I almost don't feel the hand tugging at my waistpurse. How bracing — no one's tried to rob me in years, and it means I get to test out darling Salome's parting gift.

I keep walking while the thief slips my waistpurse free from my belt. They're clever enough to let my momentum do most of the work for them. A pity they think themselves too clever to listen to the older thieves, who know better.

I make it seven paces before a furious yowl cuts through the buzz of the marketplace, and then three more before my waistpurse hits the back of my head.

 _Well, if his aim hasn't been ruined, he's clearly not that bad off_.

"You great bastard, your bag bit me!" the thief hollers. "Who the hell has a bag that — oh, dogshit, it's you."

I bow at the waist, flourishing my cape behind me, and scoop my purse out of a mud puddle. "I must thank you for a speedy return," I call after their receding back, while the crowd laughs around me. "Give my fingers your regards!"

As I said: I have a use for angler teeth, and that use is handing them joyfully to my magician lover, who likes to express affection in all sorts of devious ways. Like installing the prototype for her new anti-theft charms in my purse, without telling me. No wake-up call like it, I assure you.

Once the thief passes out of sight, I turn back toward Mazelinka's hut. The afternoon is slowly, gloriously drawing to a close, with the kind of sunset one only finds in Vesuvia. All along the canals, the gondoliers have begun to hang lanterns from their bows, and the smells of mulled wine and cider hang in the air. Autumn approaches, though summer is reluctant to let go of the city, but one can't miss the crisp edge to the breeze.

It'll be a good night for trouble. Perhaps I'll see if I can't convince Mazelinka to come for dinner at the Raven. She'll hem and haw, but I happen to know she's susceptible to my roguish charms, and I'll carry my point. Then I get to spend the evening watching her fleece every would-be hustler in the tavern, and by the time we stagger home, almost a full night will have passed.

But today — today has been a good day. I'll have to add a postscript to today's letter, and let Salome know how well her charm worked. Much easier to be appreciative when it's not my fingers being gnawed upon.

A burst of longing nearly steals away with my fine mood. I've done quite well ignoring it, for the most part — rebuilding one's reputation after being cleared of murder most foul is exhausting, but it does make it near-impossible to pine. But now and then I trip over missing her, the way I tripped over _everything_ when I was fourteen, and I always need to catch my breath till it passes.

One more week, and she'll be home. In fact, she may already be on the road, which means I'd be adding a postscript to a letter I could just hand her when she arrives.

It's worth mentioning how _unfair_ it was of our dear Countess to abscond to Prakra for a trade negotiation not two weeks after we returned from Nevivon. She didn't abscond alone; she took my sister and my lover with her, therefore depriving me of almost everyone who will still talk to me. Asra is here, though when he's not at work with his parents, he's doing strange misty things in the back of Salome's shop, or making charms out in the woods with Muriel. In any case, I'd rather not strain a friendship so recently salvaged.

So I pass the time by swindling merchants who've made a business swindling everyone else, pacing new bare tracks in all Mazelinka's rugs, and not starting fights at the Raven. Salome made me promise, before she left, and so far I've managed to start no fights at all — though I have finished a few, which may be splitting too fine a hair for my beloved.

Ah, well. I've held to the letter, if not the spirit, of the promise. Surely that'll win me a few points for effort.

The city streets are even more of an obstacle course than usual. Dozens of lumber wagons groan their way across the cobblestones, followed by loads of iron ore destined for the foundries to the west. Nadia spared no time in announcing her reforms and renewal projects, and while more than a few nobles have complained — it's their taxes she's raised to pay for it all — I don't have a single doubt she'll carry her point. Vesuvia will prosper — all of it — because our Countess has willed it so.

It's almost enough to make me forgive her for stealing Salome away before we could steal a moment for ourselves.

I make it all the way to Mazelinka's door without experiencing another bout of longing, and am just about to duck inside when a familiar wooden spoon collides with my chest.

"You're late, boy," says a voice two feet below my head.

" _No_ , I'm _not_." Someday, I'll figure out how Mazelinka turns me into a sulky teenager whenever she scolds me. "Wait, late for what? No one told me there was a party. Though I suppose I bring the party, wherever I g—"

Another whack. That one will definitely leave me with a lovely spoon-shaped bruise. "Been waiting here all afternoon, while you were out searching for cursed sealskins or what have you. Did you bring me my Desian oil, or not?"

I start unloading her packages, dancing out of the way of the spoon. "Who's waiting?"

"Carriage's been here for hours," Mazelinka sniffs at a stoppered bottle of clear fluid, with what looks like three red beads floating in it. "Shameful, really."

I whirl around when she points, and follow the line of her spoon toward a massive armored carriage sitting at the end of the street, two dark-cloaked drivers sitting atop it. A milk truck and a street-cleaner wagon obscured it before, but now I see the unobtrusive House Vesuvia sigil painted near the driver's seat. My heart starts banging against my ribs.

_But there was a week left, a whole week, and I don't have anything planned to welcome you home, and —_

"There you go, carrying on, and _on_ , about how you miss her, how you can't bear another day without her, but you'll go off while she just _waits_ for you." Mazelinka fans herself with a packet of seeds and pokes me in the arm with her spoon. She's smiling, because there's nothing she likes better than watching me flail uselessly — except maybe a strong easterly wind and a clear horizon — but you can never be quite sure if Mazelinka is just teasing, or if she means all the bruises. "Poor girl, languishing alone in her —"

The carriage door flies open on a raucous swell of laughter. "Mazelinka, please, you'll use up all his guilt!" Salome leans out the door, sunburned and beaming, her hair coiled around her head and stuck with pearls. "I had so many plans for it, too."

"Oh, you'll find my well of guilt never runs dry." I dodge Mazelinka's arm as she winds up for another whack, and bound toward the carriage. It's all I can do not to sing: _you're home, you're here, you're home._

Salome's smile grows wider with every step I take; by the time I reach the carriage steps, it almost blinds me. I go down to one knee at her feet, not even bothering to fight what is certainly the world's most lovesick smile.

"My dear lady, what brings you back so soon to fair Vesuvia? Encroaching selkies? A horde of centaurs? Madmen vying for control of the saffron trade?"

"The only madman I see is the one in front of me." Salome grabs me by the collar and hauls me into the carriage, directly on top of her. "Good night, Mazelinka! I'll take good care of him!"

"Make him take good care of _you_ , girl!" comes the reply, along with an absolutely filthy cackle.

The carriage lurches forward as I hook the door closed with my foot, only to find myself fumbling in heaps of foamy sea-green silk.

"My god, how can I kiss you if I can't find you? Where did all of this come from?" I push aside a few more layers of fabric and finally find Salome grinning up at me. The sight of her nearly stops my heart. "At last, I rescue you from the depths of…whatever this is."

"I'll have you know this is considered the _height_ of Prakran fashion," Salome says loftily. "Navra insisted on outfitting me, so Nadia would stop making ominous comments about my wardrobe choices. Do you like it?"

"There's certainly a lot of it to like," I hedge.

Salome gives me an unimpressed look, which lasts all of two breaths before she starts laughing again, and draws me down to kiss her.

She tastes of apples, and smells of cinnamon. When our lips touch, a twist of green-and-gold light dances behind my eyes, followed by the scent of rain-touched moss — her magic, greeting me in its own way.

I try to smother my eagerness; while pawing through the layers of silk to get to the warm skin below certainly has its appeal, I'm not _actually_ fourteen, and I _can_ control himself. Not that I want to, when her tongue flickers impatiently against my mouth and her hands move so fiercely in my hair.

"I missed you," she says, when we break apart for air. "Oh, Julian. I'm so glad to be home. It was lovely, but —" She shuts her eyes and sighs, then hides her face against my neck. I try to shift my weight, and feel her flinch before I manage to steady myself.

Well, that's understandable; I'm still lying on top of her, with my legs folded awkwardly against the door. No doubt we're not the dignified passengers the drivers are used to ferrying back and forth — but then again, this was Lucio's carriage, once upon a time, so perhaps we actually _are_ , by comparison.

I banish the thought, and manage a graceless bit of acrobatics that ends with her perched in my lap, and my back propped against the seat. I still don't have room to stretch out my legs, but even the most luxurious of royal carriages don't take into account my many miles of limbs. Poor Muriel would have to fold himself in half to fit, though I doubt there's _anything_ that would get that man into a carriage, royal or otherwise.

There may be some sore calves in my future, but I consider those well worth the price of having Salome so close, so much sooner than expected.

"Now —" I begin, as she wraps her be-silked arms around my shoulders and leans her head on my shoulder. "Forgive me for ruining the moment with my insatiable curiosity, but what brings you home so soon? Is all well? Is Portia —"

"She's fine." Salome sits back and smooths the front of my jacket, wearing an absurdly fond smile I'm sure I haven't earned. "As is our beloved Countess, who discovered about a week into our trip that a magician is next to useless during trade negotiations."

Which is _precisely_ what I told Nadia when she informed me she was stealing the love of my life from me. We were so lately back from Nevivon my sunburn hadn't gotten a chance to start peeling, and I'd come up with a list of ways to celebrate our homecoming, but Nadia only gave me one of her elliptical smiles, and three days later, Salome and Portia were waving at me, cheek to cheek in a quickly-receding carriage.

"Do I get to deliver an _I told you so_ over dinner?" I ask. A few strands of hair, the color of pale honey, have worked their way free of Salome's braids, and I take the opportunity to wind them about my fingers.

I still think it's a miracle, sometimes, that I can do such things. That I'm _allowed_ to do them — to reach out when I want to touch her, and to find her reaching back. That I am alive, that _she_ is alive, to imagine doing them at all.

"You can, but you'd be delivering it to me. Nadia and Portia are scheduled to leave tomorrow, so they won't be back till the end of the month." Salome tilts her head into my hand, sighing as my thumb grazes her lower lip. Then she smirks, dark eyes turned gold in a sudden flash of light through the window. "Portia gave me strict instructions — we're to get all of _that_ out of our systems before she gets home, because we're not allowed to be 'disgusting' around her."

"What a little sh — as if she and Nadia aren't mooning over each other every second they're in the same room. We're _conservative_ by comparison."

Salome rolls her eyes, but her smirk expands into a warm grin. "Gods. You don't even know the half of it. _Oh, milady, I couldn't possibly be of use to you here; Nonsense, Portia, I simply cannot do without you for a moment_ — and all of it with them _blushing_ and _giggling_ at each other. It was torture to watch. I thought Nahara was going to throw them into the nearest river and be done with it."

Now _that_ I would pay to see. "I'm sorry, did you say Nadia _giggled_? Did she hit her head? I hope Nazali examined her for hidden concussions —"

Salome tugs at a lock of my hair. "Be nice," she says, mock-warningly, leaning in so close her mouth brushes mine. At this distance, all I see are her eyes, the shadow of heavy lashes, and a few faint, golden freckles. "Nadia's promised us the use of her private bath and dining room until she returns. You know, to get all the _disgusting_ out of the way."

She kisses me, slowly now, a luxuriant communion of flesh and heat, her slick tongue moving against mine with practiced ease. Her thighs flex on either side of my hips, pinning me in place while her hands tease down the line of my jacket's buttons. The fabric falls open, and her warm palms slide under my shirt and over my bare chest. She hums, pleased, and wraps her hands in a loose ring about the base of my throat.

As for me — I'm lost, as I always am, in her taste, in her smell, in the way the world narrows to only sensation and my body's response to the way she touches me.

A miracle, every time.

When she finally pulls away for breath, her mouth has bloomed red, and her throat is flushed. Her pulse leaps just beneath the skin, feather-light, wind-swift, and I can't resist pressing my mouth there, licking and sucking just hard enough to make her moan, and grind her hips against mine.

"I missed _you,_ " I say into her skin, closing my eyes as the longing sweeps over me again. She could be a room away and I would still miss her. Even now, she still isn't close enough. "Every moment — every damn moment, Salome. The letters weren't enough."

"Nowhere near enough," she says, breathless, sealing her mouth over mine again. All I hear is my own pulse, roaring in my ears, and the sweet, needy noises she makes as I hold her hips steady and thrust upward.

" _Julian,_ " she whispers, nipping at my jaw, my throat, just hard enough to make my cock twitch and strain beneath my trousers. She takes a double fistful of my hair and pulls, until the whole length of my neck is bared to her. "How much did you miss me?"

"Can't you feel it?" I roll my hips, just to hear her breath hitch. But before I can be too pleased with myself, she yanks my head back, hard enough for stars to burst over my eyes.

Does it hurt? Of course it does. The pain isn't the point — well, it's not the _whole_ point. It never has been. The point is knowing Salome could hurt me, and will — but only as much as I want her to.

"Such a clever mouth, Doctor Devorak," she purrs. One hand leaves my hair and traces the line of my cheekbone. "I've thought of so many uses for it. But before that — I asked you a question. How _much_ did you miss me?"

"So much," I say, in a voice half-strangled with need. "More than anything — more than —" My words leave me as she nuzzles into my neck, her hot tongue dragging wet lines across my skin. "Oh, god, _please._ "

"Please what?" I feel the edge of her teeth skim the hollow of my throat and try not to cry out. She laughs, the sound dark and heavy as velvet. "What do you need, Julian?"

The bruises and love marks from our farewell didn't last nearly long enough. All I want is to feel her claim me again.

"You — just you— don't stop — _!_ " I lose the battle, and _keen_ , as she bites the curve of my shoulder. Tiny, wicked teeth; this bite is sure to linger. In the morning I'll stare at myself in the mirror, trace the bruise, and wonder how I ever came to deserve her.

Salome pulls back to admire her work. She makes another pleased hum, and lets go of my hair. "So lovely," she says, her thumb against my mouth, her eyes not leaving mine — and abruptly, I realize she's not talking about the bruise glowing on my shoulder, or at least not _only_ that.

I have to look away. It's not that I'm missing my fair share of pride — Asra would claim I've taken several others' shares, I'm sure — but there's a difference between pride in what you _do_ , and what you _are_. I can be brave, if needed, and I am learning to be kind, but there's still something in Salome's eyes I can't face, when she says such things to me.

Her hands come up to cradle my head, her touch as gentle as it was fevered moments ago. "You know," she says, with that slow-dawning smile that always makes me shiver, "I think I owe you an apology."

"What? Why?" I blink at her, through a haze of want, worry curling into my gut. "What's wrong? What — whatever it is, it's fine, I'm sure you —"

"I asked how much you missed _me_." Salome presses the tip of her finger to my mouth. "When really, what I _should_ have been doing is _showing_ you…" She trails off, her finger slipping to the open collar of my shirt to linger over my heart. "…how much I missed you."

I'm given another glimpse of that secret smile — my heart skids, my cock aches, and god, I love her, _I love her_ — before she rises from my lap to kneel beside me.

"Up," she says, and pats the seat behind me.

I obey without another word, loose-limbed, aware of my general dishevelment and my flushes and the massive tent in my trousers, and reach down to lift her to me — only for Salome to crouch between my knees, and gently spread my legs.

My heart nearly stops. I think it does, for a moment, as the carriage jolts over a rough patch in the street and someone caws laughter close by.

Her hands are blazing hot as they stroke my thighs, stopping just before they reach my groin. I'm breathing too loudly, trying my hardest not to move as Salome dips her head and exhales against the hard line of my cock.

"Oh, _god_ ," I groan. It's already too much; I spent a month in dreams of drowning within her, but the reality is orders of magnitude more intense. The air is too warm, the carriage too cramped, and she is still not close enough. "Salome…"

"Do you remember the boat? The sloop, in that little shared dream?" She speaks so lightly, as if her clever, nimble fingers weren't undoing my trousers. "We ate — those _strawberries_ — and then we went to bed. Do you remember that?"

I can only nod. She pauses, the last button left, and peers at me through the heavy fall of her lashes. "Yes," I croak, straining not to thrust into her hands. "And then —" I begin, because she's watching me so expectantly, but the very tips of her fingers ghost along my cock, skin to skin at last, and I can speak no more.

"And then," she says, her voice low, her eyes warm, her fingers almost too gentle upon me.

She says nothing else. She doesn't need to. I've forgotten none of it: the dim candlelight, the taste of strawberries lingering in my mouth, the way she rose over me, naked, gold-dusted by freckles, her hair loose for the first time I could remember. And I haven't forgotten the gratitude that rose in me, as our bodies moved as one in the gloom — that whatever came before, whatever distances we had yet to cross, we had been given this new beginning.

I'm still remembering it all when her hands free my cock, and I come back to the present just in time to watch her mouth — full lips, still red from our kisses, the pink tip of her tongue just visible — close over me.

I am not quiet at the best of times. One might politely call me _responsive_ , or _extremely_ _vocal_ , and that's when I don't have a month between me and the touch of the woman I love more than my own life. I'm not quiet now, as her tongue laves the head of my cock and her hands begin to stroke me, excruciatingly slow. Every thought left in my head goes toward keeping what little control I still have, toward not thrusting into the soft, yielding heat of her mouth, even though I think I might die if I don't.

And then she moans, the sound buzzing through my cock and deep into my body, and nothing could stop me from thrusting, or burying my hands in her hair, or crying out her name.

The whole city could hear me, begging for more, and I wouldn't care.

Salome swallows my cock, without effort, to the root; there's the barest hint of teeth against my shaft, here and gone, and then just — _heat_ , slick, incredible _heat_ , and pressure against the head as her throat flexes to take me yet deeper.

A fine sweat breaks out between my shoulder-blades and across my chest as I squirm, helpless, under her tender assault. Her tongue moves in heavy sweeps against my shaft, agile and smooth as silk, each movement wringing another cry from my mouth, another plea for _more_ , for this terrible, wracking pleasure to never end.

Her throat works, her own soft moans stop, and she pulls free, gasping, cheeks red and eyes watering, to beam up at me. A long strand of fluid — mine, hers, _ours_ — connects her lips to my cock, till it shivers, and breaks.

"More?" she asks, in a rough-edged voice that makes me break out in gooseflesh. And then — I will not make it out of this carriage alive — she licks her lips, slowly, obscenely, without breaking my gaze.

Her eyes are dark enough, and wide enough, for me to see my reflection within them. A pale, long-limbed man, spread and waiting to be devoured.

I nod. Of course I want more. I'm hers, every hopeless inch of me, to do with as she will.

Salome presses her fingernails into my thighs and drags her hands down, hard enough to raise the hairs on the back of my neck, not hard enough to mark me. I almost ask her to, but I have her bite, hot as a brand on my shoulder. I shouldn't be greedy.

"Say please, Julian."

The way she watches me makes me shy — it makes me ashamed, in some obscure way, and yet peaceful. She knows everything, has _seen_ everything — and she still waited for me, all the long afternoon. She came _home_ to me. There is nothing to be ashamed of anymore.

I lick my own lips, where her taste yet lingers. "Please," I whisper, almost a sigh. My heart pounds, and I can't seem to get enough air.

She smiles again, her nails still tracing lines through my trousers, and leans down to capture my cock again in her mouth.

Time slips away from me. Vesuvia slips away from me. I don't feel the seat beneath me, or the heat around us. Only her mouth, her soft words of love and encouragement, and her hands exist — though dimly, I hear myself crying out, and pleading, as my pleasure crests only to stop short of that final shattering.

So close. Salome brings me to the edge, over and over, holding me back with one hand at the base of my cock. After a little while, I can't even moan, much less say her name. All I am is lost in waves of pleasure and heat, a small ship aloft on mighty waters. 

Distantly, I feel her tugging my trousers low around my hips, and I think _thank god, she'll fuck me now._ I wait for her weight to settle against me, for the incredible heat and tightness of her sex to swallow my cock, yearning to feel her around me — but when her mouth withdraws, her hand lingers, still firm —

— and I scream, pain slashing arcs of white behind my closed lids as she buries her teeth in the juncture of my thigh and groin. Precious agony — every nerve I possess burns, and I am twice as alive, twice as real, anchored by the extremities of sensation.

"More —" I choke out, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. "Salome — please — god, _m-more_ —"

The shock of pain, now on the other side of my cock, leaves me twitching, still unspent, still on the precipice, moaning brokenly as Salome licks the bites with delicate sweeps of her tongue. They throb, hot even against my fevered skin, a perfect counterpoint to the pressure of her mouth gliding over me again.

"You've been so good," she murmurs with her mouth pressed to my cock. "You're _perfect_ , Julian."

My mouth, ever the traitor, opens to argue. But Salome — my clever Salome — knows me too well, and before a single word leaves me, she laughs, and bends her head one last time.

Once she lets go, I last for all of two seconds — long enough for a gasp, for her tongue to swirl around the head of my cock — before I come apart in her mouth. I know I'm crying out, thrusting madly, my whole body bent toward her like a bowstring, clawing her careful braids loose as my orgasm slams through me. A violent climax, too intense to last, almost too intense to be pleasurable — but that knife's edge is where I'm happiest, where I am _satisfied,_ and Salome knows it.

When it's over, I slump back into the seat, boneless, wrung-out, and somehow exhausted. My harsh breathing is the only sound. But Salome isn't finished with me, not quite yet, and her mouth moves over my cock, licking up every drop of my seed.

I hiss and writhe, too sensitive to feel real pleasure, but the stimulation rouses me. Valiantly, my cock tries to rise again, but Salome pulls away, her secret smile lighting her face again.

"Look at you," she whispers, and bites her lip. "Oh, Julian, _look_ at you."

I don't have to look to know I am an utter mess, spent and half-awake. I push sweat-damp hair out of my face and wonder if my heart will ever return to something resembling a normal beat. "Let me remember how to breathe, and I'll put myself back together," I say, in a cracked version of my normal voice.

"Oh, no, I can't have _that_." Salome lets out another velvety laugh, and her hands begin to pull my trousers back into place. I'm absolutely in no condition to protest or to assist, so I let my head loll against the back of the seat and close my eyes.

She murmurs to me as she sets me to rights, stroking my belly and sides with gentle fingers, telling me I am _good_ , I am _perfect_ , I am all she wants — and I want to believe her. I try. I succeed, for a little while at least.

When she's finished, she climbs onto the seat beside me and gathers me in, her mouth pressed to my temple. I bury my head in her chest, where the layers of silk almost hide her heartbeat. I smell cinnamon again, and her clean, healthy sweat, and the lemon-bright herbs she uses to wash her hair. I smell _home_ , and perhaps I cling to her a little too hard, because moments later she makes a wordless little protest and wriggles free.

But she's smiling, when I look up to apologize, her cheeks pink and her eyes soft. The hair I pulled loose falls into messy waves past her waist, pearl-headed pins all vanished.

"Oh, Salome — I made a mess of you," I say, smoothing the hair away from her cheeks, realizing abruptly I'm still wearing my gloves. I pull them off with my teeth and toss them to the side, then card my hands through her hair.

She laughs and bats my hands away. "Leave it, it's fine — I'm just going to take them all out when we get to the Palace. I need a good scrubbing after the trip."

"Mm." It takes all my energy to waggle my brows at her, but it's worth it to hear her keep laughing, head thrown back in delight. "Are you looking for a scrubbing assistant, my lady? I come highly recommended, and —" The rest of my words are gone, swallowed up by a massive yawn.

Salome shakes her head, then scoots to the end of the seat and tugs me down to rest against her. She cradles my head in her lap, smoothing the hair back from my forehead and cheeks, humming a quiet song in the back of her throat.

A lullaby, one she's hummed to me before. I nearly protest, because it's been a _month_ and I have so much I want to ask her about her journey, but sleep sweeps over me like the tide.

"This isn't finished," I murmur, kissing her thigh through her dress. My own thighs ache, the sweet rings of bruises an ache I savor with each beat of my heart. A tension I hardly knew I carried is spilling out of me, evaporating into the humid air. "We still have the rest of our reunion to enjoy. I have —" Another yawn interrupts me. "I have plans, my darling. The things I'll do to you…"

"I know you do." Salome bends down to kiss my cheek. "Now sleep, till we get to the Palace."

So I do, lulled by the steady rocking of the carriage, and her hands stroking my chest.

She's home. The rest can wait.


End file.
